One day, I left my garage door open for just ten minutes. When I came back, my Cuisinart ice cream machine was gone—stolen. Strangely, the bowl wasn’t taken. Fourteen months later, I walked into the garage and found it sitting there again. Clean. Plugged in. Humming. A sticky note was taped to the side: “Thank you. I’m sorry.” No name. No explanation.

At first, I thought it was a prank, but weeks later, I got another note in my mailbox: “She died last week. I didn’t know who else to tell.” I asked around and learned about D’von, a teenager whose grandma had just passed away. Suddenly it all clicked—he must have taken the machine, maybe for her, maybe to hold onto something good while she was sick. And when she was gone, he returned it.

I baked a batch of ice cream and left a container on his porch with a note: “For D’von. Come by if you ever want to talk.” A few days later, he showed up. Nervous. Apologetic. He told me about his grandma—how she loved Dairy Queen, puzzles, and gospel music. How she told him before she passed to return what wasn’t his. I told him he was welcome anytime.

From then on, Tuesdays became our ritual. We made sorbet, gelato, crazy flavors like cinnamon fig. He taught me TikTok, I taught him espresso affogato. One day he brought a flyer for a culinary scholarship. I pushed him to apply. He got in. Before leaving for school, he handed me his grandma’s handwritten recipe book, saying, “She wanted you to have it.”

It’s been three years. D’von now works at a café, still sends me photos of new flavors, and sometimes calls when he’s stressed. Last Christmas, he sent a card: “Thanks for leaving the door open. Twice.” And I realized—sometimes people take not out of greed, but out of grief. And if you meet that with patience and kindness, life gives it back tenfold.